Decorum
by Avariel600
Summary: A Sand fanfic just because moon elves have to stick together. cough cough
1. Chapter 1

"Look, I don't care what you do, just make sure she doesn't show up at court looking like...that!"

Sand gestured at the amused elven warrior sitting by the fire, tapping the edge of her longsword against the wooden floor of the tavern rhythmically. The woman's hair was bound up not-so-neatly in a loose bun at the crown of her head, a few silvery-white strands already falling loose and curling down the nape of her neck. Her armor was well oiled and fitted, but had the stains and mars of many a battle, not to mention many layers of road dust settled in the cracks. She grinned at him, one corner of her mouth pulling up crookedly and dimpling her cheek. "What's wrong with the way I look, Sand?"

"Dear girl, just sitting there, you look like you could sack a thousand Ember's before breakfast." He waved a hand imperiously at Shandra before turning to leave the Flagon, his mind fluttering with the upcoming trial. "Just...make her look feminine. Elegant. Something _besides_ practiced, cold-blooded killer is what we're going for."

"But that's my best look!"

He shot Sathyra an irritated glance; normally their daily word sparring was quite a refreshing exercise for him, but today? "Well, if you prefer the "look" of a twelve foot culled rope around your neck, by all means! Ignore my advice." And with a furious slam of the front door, he was gone.

Shandra glanced at Sathyra, who chuckled as she stood, sheathing her blade between her shoulder-blades. "Well lass," said the moon elf fondly; she turned in a circle, her arms stretched wide. "I'm all yours! What's first?"

Shandra tapped a finger to her chin thoughtfully, a slow grin spreading across her face. "I think we need to visit Ophala."

o o o o o o

Sand grit his teeth; the low thunder of conversation that echoed throughout the courtroom was grating on his nerves. Torio stood on the opposite podium, tapping her nails impatiently on the edge, a look of suitable boredom on her face. He glanced out the window; the sun was blazing merrily across the open space of floor between the podiums and Nasher's empty throne. _ Past noon, already. What was taking 'His Lordship' so damn long?_ He was more than a little nervous, and they hadn't even given him the chance to speak with Sathyra before the trial. He had wanted to go over their evidence, had wanted to tell her what to say (okay, what _not_ to say, to be specific), he had wanted to...

_Blast_. He didn't know what he wanted to do. He had simply realized with a looming sense of dread that if they failed today, the last time he'd see her is when the bodyguards that now hovered behind Torio would be grabbing the elf by that mess of silver hair on her head and dragging her all the way back to Luskan to be hanged. Saying "good luck" would have been a start, at least.

A hush fell over the crowd, and Sand looked up to watch Oleff enter the room and stand next to the throne. "Lord Nasher Alagondar, Defender of Neverwinter and Reverend Judge Oleff Uskar, Lord Justiciar of Tyr."

Both men entered, Nasher permeating grave sobriety; Oleff looked mildly irritated. Nasher took his seat, and intoned, "Bring in the accused."

There was a general shifting in the stands as everyone turned towards the door. Shandra entered, making a beeline for Sand, followed by...

_Sweet Mystra..._ a vision in pale, sea foam green stepped into the courtroom; her silvery hair was piled onto her head in long, luxurious curls; her skin, scrubbed free of dirt and grime, was surprisingly smooth and nearly blemish free, her cheeks glowing slightly pink. As she stepped up to him and Shandra, he found himself completely startled by the pale green of her eyes, set off by the color in the very form-fitting dress that hugged her lithe body. He hadn't noticed them before...

As Nasher and Oleff began picking through the evidence, those eyes of hers flicked to his face momentarily, and a self-satisfied smirk twitched across her mouth. Sand couldn't quite comprehend why he grinned back at her, but he swore he heard a sound somewhere in the crowd akin to a paladin and a ranger swallowing their own tongues...

o o o o o o

"Trial by combat!" Sathyra exploded, when they'd finally pushed through the crush of bodies leaving the courtroom. "We _won_, blast it! That two-faced harpy _bitch_..."

Casavir looked scandalized; Bishop burst into laughter. Qara merely rolled her eyes. "You expected different from the likes of her?" she asked scathingly. "I'm surprised she even bothered with a trial. A smart woman would have just killed you in your sleep."

Shandra seemed to be in something of a trance. "You have to fight Lorne."

"Yes, girl, we know." Sand snapped at her; his mind was racing as he faced Sathyra, his lips pressed in a thin line. "Look, you have to head to the temple for your vigil, but we've got some time to prepare. Your armor's at the Flagon, still?"

She quirked an eyebrow at him; her eyes said _What are you cooking up_? "Yes, it is, along with everything else. We figured it'd look bad on us if I walked into court fully armed." She pinched the bridge of her nose in irritation. "Now it looks as though that's how I _should've _come."

"You have to fight _Lorne_."

"Shandra! I know." The elf patted Shandra's hand. "Will you relax? I'll be fine." There was a distinctly panicked note in her voice that said, _I hope._

Sand did the hardest thing he'd done that day. At least, so far. He turned to the paladin and said, through clenched teeth, "Will you take Sathyra to the temple? I need to run back to the tavern."

The paladin gave a formal little half-bow. "It would be my honor."

"You know, I _do_ know where the Temple of Tyr is. _And_ how to walk, as well." Sathyra's wry voice floated from somewhere behind his right shoulder.

"Aren't you something," muttered Bishop surlily.

He glanced back at her; her face was a picture of indignation warring with amusement. Both were directed at him. "Well, you'll forgive me, my _lady_, if I am under the assumption that you're not safe traveling alone at the moment. What with Luskan soldiers being in the city, as well said soldiers being here for the pursuant of your untimely demise." He gave her a look that brooked no argument; she stared at him coolly, but he caught the upwards twitch at the corner of her mouth, and the appraising look in her eyes made his heart beat unreasonably fast. "Very well," she said. "_Amin lungan nae llie, noldo enna._" And with a near imperceptible, sly cock of her eyebrows, she turned, and the group made their way towards the Blacklake gates, headed for the Merchant district and the Temple of Tyr.

_I bend to you, wise one._ It was a common enough phrase, used by youths as an expression of trust towards their elders. And he was most definitely her elder, but...as he watched her walk away, she glanced at him over her shoulder, and he couldn't help feeling that the lascivious swaying of her hips was slightly exaggerated as she walked.


	2. Chapter 2

Hilam arched a brow as a moon elf, loaded down with a seemingly heavy sack and multiple pieces of platemail armor, came staggering through the main temple entrance.

"Sathyra!" he gasped when he came close to the priest, his knees visibly shaking under the weight.

"Follow me," intoned Hilam, and Sand managed to stumble the last few steps into the back antechamber that the priest opened for him.

"No thanks, I've got it all, no need for assistance," he gasped out as he passed the (quite burly) human. He made two steps into the room before letting the armor fall from his grip, clattering onto the floor noisily.

Sathyra turned from where she had been staring at the statue, a shifting of silk across polished marble floor. A grin crept across her face as she hurried forward, taking the sackcloth from the furious wizard's grasp. "You made it! I was beginning to think you finally blew yourself up at your alchemy bench."

He snorted at her. "You're welcome." He watched with mild embarrassment as she peered into the bag, pulling out a freshly brewed healing potion. She looked up at him, an intense, unreadable look in her eyes; the silence stretched out for a moment, and he rubbed the back of his neck uneasily. "Ahh...I figured that you'd want them. That you'd need them. I had extra, in my store." His voice sounded unnecessarily loud in his ears, and he would have gone on talking inanely had she not placed a finger over his lips.

"You had extra? With freshly made seals on the corks?" She smiled, setting the bag down. "You don't fool me, wizard."

Her touch was electrifying; that single, calloused finger pressed against his lips was like a bolt of lightning, charging across his tongue and shooting down to extremities that were beginning to get very warm indeed. He stepped back suddenly, realizing how close she was to him. _The girl always did like to tease you. _ "Yes, well, thank you once again for making this painfully embarrassing, Sathyra." He coughed stiffly, then turned to leave. "I shall see myself out."

Her hand was on his shoulder before he could take another step; the woman was strong, no doubt from all that sword swinging, and her grip held him fast for a moment. "Why don't you come sit with me? Take a breather; I know carrying that gear must have been murderous." He heard the wry humor in her voice. "I would know; I have to wear it all the time."

He would have said yes, any other time; the woman had intelligence that was uncommon among her other weapon-swinging, head-bashing peers, and he secretly delighted in the wicked way she always teased him. But...suddenly, having her stand there in the most delightfully revealing green dress he'd ever seen, beautifully manicured and cheerfully facing death in a mere few hours, he couldn't quite bear the light-hearted, double entendre's she usually barbed him with; the same ones that were usually riposted with witticisms of his own. He refused to turn around and look at her again, refused to be goaded into mere wordplay when what he wanted...

_Damn it._

"It's late, Sathyra," he heard himself saying. "You should rest while you can, for that is what _I_ intend to do." He broke free of her grasp, was almost to the door...

"Sand," she was right behind him, and as he turned, one eyebrow arched and a reasonably sharp retort on his tongue, her fingers sank into the soft folds of his robe, and he was inexorably pulled into her body as her lips found his. For a moment all he could smell was a faint perfume that reminded him of water lilies, a trace of leather and oil, the musty smell of the antechamber around them...her mouth had opened hungrily beneath his, and suddenly a white, hot fire took control of his mind, and he found his hands sliding down her waist, cupping the swellings curve of her hips and pulling her tightly to him. Silk threads parted with a ripping, tearing sound as his fingers dug into the soft fabric, and she made a throaty, maddeningly breathless sigh against his mouth as her back was shoved unceremoniously against the altar.

Weeks of pent up frustration, of coy smiles, of bawdy jokes, of clever retorts, of flirtatious innuendo...she had taunted and teased, complimented and cajoled, and he had born it with the rapier wit he was known for, but underneath it he had been simmering with a curious, maddening desire that he hadn't felt in years. Now, her fingers were digging into his hair just as he'd imagined they would, and he sank his teeth gently into the sweet, tender skin of her exposed shoulder, illiciting a startled, sharp intake of breath that filled him to no end with satisfaction. Scraps of torn silk were sliding off of her slender frame as his hands moved, and the soft brush of bare skin intermingling with fabric was tightening the ever growing knot that had formed below his naval; even as he began trailing kisses up her throat, he was thinking _oh gods, oh gods, oh gods...what in the _hells_ am I doing..._

"My dear," he whispered raggedly into her ear, "I hate to be a downer...but Tyr is staring at us."

She leaned back a little to look at him, a feverish glint to her eye; without a word she reached down and pulled the tattered remains of her dress up and over her head, tossing it expertly at the enormous statue that stood behind the altar; it floated through the air like a gentle leaf blown on the wind, and landed squarely on the figure's head, green silk settling over the lifeless eyes.

He registered that she was naked, that she had her arms around him, and that his hands were placed in strategically embarrassing positions against her skin. His eyes gleefully ignored the commands from his brain, and roamed over her body, one hand sliding from her hip across her flattened stomach, trailing up and gently brushing across her breasts. His brain, in retaliation to this insult, informed him that the young elven woman was making quick work of undoing his clothing.

"Sathyra, what-"

"Shhh!" She giggled madly, pressing her lips to his and silencing him effectively; a hot, nameless wave of sensation flooded through him as her tongue gently pried his mouth open once more, fingers deftly pulling apart the now-unlaced robe that normally graced his shoulders. He practically whimpered as her fingers brushed against his bare chest, sliding down the front of his stomach, then lower, to where his trews were fastened together beneath his naval.

_She's Duncan's niece! She's at least three-hundred years younger than you. _ _She's bearing a broken piece of githyanki craftsmanship in her chest. _His mind was reeling with excuses at to why he should stop this, right now, and leave. But with every excuse that surfaced, another piece of his clothing was discarded, and then the cold air of the antechamber was hitting his skin, and the long, soft length of her was finally pressed against him...

...and she was _kneeling_...

_My gods,_ he thought; He let out a ragged exhale, his hands gripping the edge of the altar, as a wave of hot, piercing sensations shot through his body, _I sincerely hope that none of the priests walk in here right now..._

Moments later, he could no longer stand it, and he pushed her down onto the floor, her eyes laughing up at him. His hands roamed the curves of her body, and he felt a wave of satisfaction ripple through him at the agonized, delighted gasp that came from her throat as he gently parted her legs and positioned himself in-between them.

Her mouth was pressed against his ear throughout it, an attempt to muffle her cries; but her sweet, low voice whispering, whimpering, gasping against the sensitive, pointed shell that graced the side of his head nearly drove him insane, and at one point he nearly cried out as her fingernails raked down his back.

_If we get caught..._

_...oh gods, we're in a _church

And in a final, shattering moment, he exhaled her name and lost himself in her body, his arms encircling her, pulling her against him with all of his strength, his thoughts silenced by the warm, clenching heat that seared his entire being.

They lay for quite some time, afterwards; silent, the only sound their steady breathing, his body covering hers. Then, her trembling fingers gently pushed strands of his black hair away from his face, and she chuckled, the sound low and throaty, like the purr of a satisfied cat. "That," she whispered, "was the best comeback you've ever come up with."

o o o o o o

When Casavir visited her sometime later that night, he found her sitting blithely on the floor, alone, wearing her armor and packing healing potions into her belt. He knelt in front of her, offered to fight for her.

She smiled. "No...thank you, Casavir, but no." Her cheeks were flushed; he asked her if she was feeling ill. "No, not ill." Was she nervous about the fight? "No, not really." A mischievous light came in to her eyes. "Maybe being here with the God of Justice has calmed me, somewhat."

Casavir cleared his throat, his expression confused. "My lady?"

"Yes?"

"Why is your dress draped over Tyr's head?"


	3. Chapter 3

It was the longest fight Sand had ever witnessed.

And of course, he had the dubious pleasure of sitting next to Khelgar; it was either him, or Duncan, and the moon elf just didn't have the courage to even look the bartender in the eye, much less exchange their usual parlay of insults. He was mildly terrified that, when faced with a scathing remark from Duncan, the only comeback he would be able to come up with is, "Well, it just so happens that I made love to your niece last night," followed by much bloodshed and screaming, both of which would be centered around him. He was sure there'd be plenty of bloodshed and screaming today without his getting involved in it.

So he sat, coolly attempting to ignore the dwarf's raucous cheering; everyone around him went wild as Sathyra walked into the arena, a wall of fire springing up behind her in order to block her escape from the ring. His nervousness bordering on nonsensical panic was mingled with flashes of memory, images from the night before that kept replaying in his mind; her large green eyes staring into his, the softness of her skin, and the soft, compelling sounds she had made in his ear in response to the things his body had been doing to hers. He found his eyes trying to discern her expression as she entered the field, even though he could barely make out any of her features at all from where he stood. Her shoulders were squared, her armor gleamed dully, her sword was drawn, resting easily in her hand. The rising sun gleamed against her pale, silver hair, once again wound in an unflattering, messy bun. She looked suitably heroic as she faced Lorne, who was easily five hands taller and six hands wider than she was.

He found himself thinking, _At least I was able to lie with her before she died._

_What kind of a thing to think is that? _

_Just trying to be optimistic._

Well, and what if she did die? He would feel her loss, surely; he didn't want to imagine her dying, certaintly. But with a guilty pang, he realized he was more worried about what would happen if she _survived_.

And then it began, swords clashing, spectators shouting; through it all, Sand stayed in his seat, watching the process with a growing knot of dread in his stomach. Every time a swing from Lorne's greatsword cut dangerously close to a vital part of Sathyra's body, the crowd gasped, and the knot clenched tighter. But he sat, calmly. Even when the moon elven warrior dodged inside Lorne's guard, sacrificing a blow to her shoulder for a stab at the man's midsection. Even when she danced back again, blood spilling down her arm. Even when Lorne charged her, head bent like a battering ram, and literally sent her flying with the sheer momentum behind his skull, butting her backwards and sending her sprawling onto her back in the dirt.

Even when she remained there, lying motionless as Lorne advanced...

The dwarf next to him was unslinging his weapon, screaming in rage along with many members of the audience. And then, as Lorne stood over her, raising his greatsword above his head, Sand realized he was on his feet, stepping over heads and shoulders and whatever reasonably flat surface he could find, an incantation readied on his lips. A pair of hands gripped him, pulling him away from the edge of the stands; he had been about to step over that, as well, had nearly had one foot planted on the low wall that rose in front of the first row of seats. Then another pair of hands held fast to him too, and he realized that two of the guards were dragging him back to the seats, and the greatsword was swinging down...

He saw, over the shoulder of the guard that was currently muscling him backwards, Sathyra shift, saw her longsword come up as the giant loomed over her; she placed her foot against the crossguard of her own blade, and rammed it upwards with all her might. Lorne's downward sweep stopped abruptly, and the most satisfying look of surprise crossed his features. For a moment, he stood suspended, impaled nearly to the hilt of Sathyra's blade as silence fell on the arena. Then the greatsword clattered to the ground, and the giant soon followed, toppling over and hitting the dirt with a dull, fatalistic _thud_.

He saw Sathyra scramble wearily to her feet, and vaguely heard cheering erupt all around him; his head was light, a wave of dizziness washing over him suddenly as the guards let him go. Khelgar pounded him on the back, sending the elf swaying to and fro drunkenly. "She did it!! She's won, wizard!!!"

"Wonderful," he mumbled blearily; and then, without further ado, Sand promptly passed out.


	4. Chapter 4

When he opened his eyes again, the late afternoon sun was blazing inconsiderately through his window, casting a warm glow throughout his own bedroom (which, apparently, he was lying in.) The light gave him an instant headache, and he shut his eyes again, both against it and the images that flashed through his head.

_She won._

_Yes, and then you fainted._

_Did I, really? _He remembered with some embarrassment how he had launched himself from his seat, trying to call up a few magic missiles to throw across the arena and into Lorne's face; he'd nearly jumped down into the pit with the two fighters. Then the guards had pulled him back, Khelgar has shouted, his mind had gone from chilling, icy rage to warm relief and eventual panic within the flick of an eyelash, and then he'd blacked out.

_And everyone...?_

_Oh yes, the whole crowd witnessed it._

Well. It had been a while since he'd made a complete fool of himself; he supposed he'd been due for it sooner or later. But over a woman? Especially when said woman had just obliterated seven feet of solidly muscled Lorne, all on her lonesome?

He groaned, shifting to cover his eyes with his left hand...except that his hand was pinned down onto the bed by some unknown weight. One eye opened slightly; Sathyra sat next to his bed, bent forward and squash-faced into the mattress, her forehead pressed against the back of his hand while her fingers rested lightly somewhere close to his elbow. She was, if indicated by the soft snoring and tightly closed eyelids, deep asleep.

An unfamiliar flash of tenderness jolted through him. _All right. Admit that you like her._

He...respected her, yes. The gods knew (especially Tyr) that he was _physically_ attracted to her. She was one of the few out of that entire group of misfits that could trade words with him on some level of intelligence. And the only one brave enough to _tease_ him. A few times she'd rendered him speechless after a particularly jaunty barb of hers, and he hadn't known whether to be pleased or outraged.

And she'd seduced him. In a _church_. He wasn't sure if he was pleased or outraged over that, either. His eyes followed the curve of her jaw as she slept, smooth and stubbornly set, running down into the arch of her long, white neck. Images flashed through his mind from the night before, and he felt a rush of heat permeate his skin.

_Well_. Pleased it was, then.

But, he had to admit, she had quite the ulterior motive for reaching out to him on the eve of what might have been her last battle. Death had loomed on her horizon, and she might have been merely looking for comfort of the basest nature. They were conveniently good enough companions that she could have merely felt more comfortable inciting a one night dalliance with _him_, as opposed to the other two...candidates. And he couldn't deny that there was a physical pull between both of them, a tension that had existed since the moment she'd turn around to face him as he walked into the flagon, that first day; her delicate, moon-elven beauty offset by the tarnished, earthen, bloodied armor she wore. He had been shocked, aroused, intrigued by the complete paradox she represented, just by standing there. And she had returned his stare momentarily, eyes wide, lips slightly parted, inhaling sharply for the merest of moments...

Then he had turned, as if ignoring her, and had sent a barrage of off-handed insults in Duncan's direction, attempting to regain some ground. Afterwards, the wordplay between her and him was almost constant, but that first moment had been there, simmering under the surface...

His hand, as if by it's own volition, turned underneath her weight, his thumb sliding across the bridge of her nose and down the smooth plane of her cheek. She muttered something, shifted, sucked in the slow, deep breath of those returning to consciousness, and opened her eyes.

Her head remained on the bed, turned towards him; she felt his hand on her face, and seemed to freeze, her face expressionless. Sand felt a surge of panic...

...that disappeared as a shy smile curled her lips. "Look who's awake," she said, her voice drawling in the same light mockery she always used with him.

"I could say the same for you, dear girl," he said archly. His hand dropped to his side. "Is it customary for all warriors to drool in their slumber?"

She scowled at him, but her eyes danced merrily. "As customary as it is for all wizards to faint at the sight of battle."

He sniffed at her disdainfully. "I'll have you know that I was interrupted in the midst of my spellcasting; I can't be blamed for the after effects of such an action." He sat up, propping his back against the headboard, and realized with a disconcerting downward glance that he was clad in only his trews. _ Well...it's not as if she hasn't seen it, already._ "May I ask where my clothes are?"

She sat up and stretched, yawning slightly as she gestured to the wardrobe on the other side of his room. "Khelgar and Casavir carried you here all the way from the arena; we didn't know what was wrong with you, and Elanee advised that we get you as un-constricted as possible, and in to bed."

Sand rolled his eyes. "Ah yes, the answer to everyone's ailments; just remove their clothes."

"And you're surprised, with the way she dresses?"

He snorted a laugh, which quickly died when he felt her hand on his; he met her eyes, and she frowned at him slightly, the teasing gone from her voice. "You _are_ all right though, yes?"

"Perfectly fine, dear girl." He yawned himself, stretching his arms behind his head...he noticed how her eyes flicked from his face down to his bare chest and back up again, and felt a smirk of satisfaction twitch across his mouth. "Although it's _quite_ possible that I didn't get enough sleep last night."

Heat flared in her eyes as one delicate, pale eyebrow shot up. "Oh? And why is that?"

His voice was offhanded. "Why, I knew the dangers you'd be facing, girl; I couldn't rest until I'd gone to the temple to pray for your safety."

She blinked at him, and he felt a momentary flash of triumph when he realized he'd managed to render _her_ speechless, for once. Then laughter burst from her throat, and she lifted herself up, crawling forward onto the bed until her knees were on either side of his waist...her hands slid up his bare chest, and he felt his blood thunder wildly in his ears at the feel of her straddling his lap, the warm weight of her pressing down against the heat that was gathering below his waist. Her face, her lips, were tantalizing close to his as she practically purred, "And what about now, wizard? Am I in danger now?"

His hand lifted from the bed, sliding up the back of her neck and entangling itself in that lustrous, silver hair. His other arm slid around her waist, pulling her down so that her body pressed fully against his. "More than you even know, girl." And with a slight pressure from his fingers, he pulled her face downward, kissing her with such sudden ferocity that a startled gasp escaped her lips, muffled against his passionate onslaught.

_Well, I can safely say that this was _not_ just a one night dalliance...was there such a thing as two night dalliances?_

Her tunic was discarded a few moments later, and her fingers were slowly working the laces at his waist; he assumed she was purposefully brushing her fingers against him in the process...

_She seems enthusiastic about this whole thing...and in all fairness, death is imminent for all of us on a daily basis, so I suppose it's not illogical_

She definitely had a penchant for tossing clothing, as he watched his trews sail across the room and land expertly on the doorknob. Hers landed somewhere behind the wardrobe...

_You know, I could get used to this..._

He buried his face against her neck, arms encircling her waist, her fingers sinking into his hair as she fused the minute distance between them with a slow, downward thrust of her hips; and after that, the thoughts disappeared, and there wasn't much else that he could have focused on, had he wanted to.

o o o o o o

She stirred slightly, mumbling something, and he opened his eyes drowsily. "Hmm?"

"I said, this is a lot warmer than sleeping alone."

"Hmm." He had to agree; thanks to Duncan banking the fires of the common room at night, the rooms were downright freezing, and it was much more comfortable having a nude Sathyra curled up next to him. _Yes. Comfortable._

"Maybe we should...?"

"Hmmm?"

"Oh come on, Sand."

He chuckled. "Is it worth risking being murdered by your uncle just to share a bed with you?"

He felt her shift, saw a pair of green eyes move in front of his vision, pale hair gleaming in the moonlight that now streamed through the window. "You tell me." She stared down at him, eyes wide, lips slightly parted, inhaling sharply for the merest of moments...

He sighed. _Death was imminent anyway, after all_. "If you promise to keep your uncle from disemboweling me with a keg tap, then I..._suppose_ it wouldn't do any harm..."

"I'll do my best." She grinned. "It's not like I'm going to _tell_ him where I'll be spending my nights."

He gave her a dubious look, and she responded by kissing him, the sensual pressure of her lips igniting a tiny flame inside of him once again. He inhaled deeply, the scent of waterlilies invading his nostrils, and with a swift motion turned her onto her back, illiciting a surprised squeal from her throat.

As her arms wrapped around his neck, he resigned himself, with the grace and stoicalness of all martyrs, to the fact that, from this point forward, sleep was going to be an elusive concept, indeed.


End file.
